A Beautiful Lie
by smilee.shortee
Summary: A lot can happen in eleven months and thirty-one days. And for Edward, a year is all he's got with Bella, unless he can find a way to save her life and his. Rated M for language/lemons/dark themes.
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own _Twilight_ or anything associated with the saga. **

**WARNING: This story will contain graphic language, sex, mature and dark themes, and angst. If you are under 18 or uncomfortable with any of these topics, this story will probably not be what you are looking for in a fanfic. **

**This story contains the typical pairings of the characters. Some will be slightly OOC, others will be so out of character you won't even know what hit you.**

**I would like to thank you in advance for reading. I've never written anything of this sort before and I'm nervous for the kind of feedback it will receive, if any at all. **

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><p><strong>Chapter One<strong>

It's silent except for the occasional clink of ice against glass in the smoke-hazed room. I grip my cup loosely, slowly tilting it back and forth. It's cold against my hand; I'm slowly losing the ability to feel my fingertips. I relish the cold.

I sit in an overstuffed chair, one leg resting carefully across the other and the elbow of the arm holding my chilled whiskey casually against the plush arm of the chair. I know better than to let my foot bounce up and down the way my body is aching to - if there's one thing the smug bastard behind the freshly polished desk in front of me loves, it's a sign of weakness. Nervousness. Anxiety. Fear. He gets off on that shit.

I'd rather be chewed to death by a feral pack of teething puppies then let the sick fucker get off on my emotions.

You see, in the kind of business I'm involved in, emotions are best when restrained, smothered, and terminated.

"Are you sure you want to do this, Edward?"

His voice is smooth; I fucking hate it. I raise the glass to my mouth and feel the drink hit my lips. I part them slightly and the liquor trickles through my teeth and down my burning throat. I swallow and let a beat pass before lowering the drink from my face and meeting his eye across the table.

"Yes, uncle."

Aro smiles slowly, sharp teeth glinting in the light.

"Very well."

He reaches out a spidery hand and places a single finger on the photograph that rests on the very edge of the desk and slides it to him, spinning it so the face on it is right side up. He gazes at it intensely, studying the face almost as acutely as I had.

I know what he sees. Her face is burned onto the backs of my eyelids. She's nothing special, the girl in the photograph. Long brown hair, a pair dark eyes, light skin, pink-red lips, one nose, two ears, a chin... Quite frankly, she's unremarkable. Average. Completely and utterly ordinary. And certainly not my type.

Yeah, I have a fucking type. Call me typical, but I'm into the whole tall, blonde, and glorious thing. Essentially, I like bomb-shells of women. And to be honest, I don't give a shit about their personalities. As I said, the kind of business I'm involved in leaves very little room for getting attached to anything that has a pulse. Emotionally, that is. My lips and other bits are free roam and attach onto whatever they please.

It's another moment or two of him studying her photo before he speaks again in that steely voice of his. "Remember: Get her to trust you. I want the betrayal to be absolute. I want her to suffer."

I lean forward to place my glass on the wood. His eyes flash and I have to suppress a sneering grin. He fucking hates ring marks on his precious desk. I swear, the piece of wood is more important to him than I am. Not that that is a problem; my toothbrush holds more significance to me than he ever could.

Aro raises an eyebrow at me and nods his head at the small stack of coasters at the corner of his ever magnificent desk. I put one under my cup.

He wins this round.

_Who are you kidding? He wins _every_ round. _

When I return to reclining in my seat, I feel his gaze on me. I know he's calculating, wondering just how capable I am for this particular job. It's an important one: even as competent as I have proved myself to be over the years, I know he's still asking himself if I'm good enough for this.

His younger brothers - my other two uncles - told him not to give this assignment to me. They don't trust me like he does. It would make me angry, their lack of trust in me… if they had no reason _not _to trust me.

But they have plenty.

The first one being that if I had my way, this motherfucker would be dead and six feet under the ground somewhere in the middle of the Russia.

"All right," Aro says finally, after a moment of silence. This time, the clinking of ice doesn't fill the gap of our conversation. Or rather, his telling and my listening.

Flicking a hand sharply above his head, he folds his fingers together and rests them on his desk, over the photograph. Two burly men I recognize but don't care enough for to acknowledge properly step out from the shadows behind him and walk around him to escort me out. Their presence isn't a surprise to me - I'm not stupid enough to believe Aro Volturi, notorious leader of the Volturi (christened by none other than my great grandfather), would ever meet for business without an appropriately equipped entourage. I know what these big oafs are packing under those too tight suit jackets. I also know what I've got tucked neatly into the holster strapped around my ankle.

"Be packed and ready to go by five. Accommodations have already been prepared for you. I trust you will find them agreeable."

In other words, finding them disagreeable is not an option. I hold back a snort.

One of the men swipes a thick packet of papers off the desk and holds it out for me to take. I tip it open it slightly and see a number of different items, including a pair of car keys, a new ID, and a worn out passport. I make a mental note to inspect each of these in detail later and press the packet close. I look up and Aro's staring at me, his eyes looking a shade of blood red in the smokey dim of his office. I hold his gaze, almost defiantly, before I blink and nod my head sharply and stand. I run a hand down my chest, smoothing over the suit that most men would have had to pay an arm and two legs for, and wait for his dismissal.

"Best of luck to you," Aro purrs, cocking his head to the side and watching me through narrowed, thoughtful eyes. He is probably imagining all the different ways I could possibly fail him in the coming year. I return his steady gaze. "I'll be seeing you." He chuckles to himself; the sound is like the clatter of plates smashing to thousands of bits and pieces against the ground. It's taken me fourteen years to be able to restrain myself from cringing every time he laughs. "You shan't be seeing me for a while though, my dear boy. " I narrow my eyes and clench the folder of papers in my hand tightly. I fucking hate it when he calls me that, and he knows it. Bastard.

Two can play at this game.

Fuck, is this even a game?

Yes, it's a game. He's been at constant play since my parents died fourteen years ago. But I've learned the rules, I've been playing just as long as he. And fuck if I can't hold my own.

"If I live out the rest of my life without ever seeing you again, my dear uncle Aro, it'd still be too soon." I say, curving my lips into a charming smile even he can't see through. Aro laughs like I've just told the quirkiest joke of the century, a fond look crossing his face.

I'm not deceived by it. Not for a second. I know he could look at me with that tender face all he wanted and still stab me in the back with a butter knife.

"My nephew, ever the comedian," he says to no one in particular, or perhaps to the two mammoth sized men at my side. I don't care. I just want to get the fuck out of here, because it's late, and I have much to do before the day's end. So I flash him a tight smile, give a shallow, respectful bow of my head, and turn on my heels.

Before I can reach the door, he calls out to me.

"Oh, Edward?"

So close. So fucking close.

I stop but don't turn around. The two men are a few steps behind me, hesitating uncertainly. I hold my breath.

His voice is icy; he's no longer playing the jovial, indulgent character he was a moment ago. "Don't let me down."

I turn my head slightly over my shoulder and swallow my disgust as I look at him.

"I won't."

And finally, I'm out the door. Finally, I can breathe again.

I won't have to see the son of a bitch for a year. It's a blessing, with a single, simple catch.

My name is Edward Volturi, and for one year, I will not have to see the face of my uncle, who is also my employer in his family run 'business', and the bastard who has killed men with his bare hands and has had the audacity to sit down to Sunday dinner and lead us all in prayer. For one year, I will be without of his ever present shadow, looming over me, consuming me. For one year, I will be free.

Well, as free as I'll ever be. For now, it's good enough.

And in eleven months and thirty-one days, the girl who's photo is sitting on my uncle's desk, the girl who is so unremarkably plain, the girl who's name is Isabella Swan… will be dead.

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><p><strong>If you are still with me, thank you for reading. Comments and feedback are greatly appreciated, but if you decide not to leave one, you don't have to worry about me hunting you down and lurking under your bed at night. I'm not that insane. Yet.<strong>

**Questions, problems, concerns? Just drop me a note and I'll be happy to answer them for you.**

**Otherwise, have a lovely weekend.**


	2. Chapter 2

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own _Twilight_ or anything associated with the saga. **

**So, thank you to the few that have read and reviewed. I appreciate it, a lot. Really. **

**Before you panic, Edward won't be remaining Anthony for long. He has a way of... slipping up. You'll see what I mean, in a chapter or two.**

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><p><strong>Chapter Two<strong>

_Anthony Cullen. _

It's strange, having a stranger's name on my lips and using it as my own. For the next year, Edward Volturi does not exist.

I'm weirdly okay with that.

The woman gives me a wide smile and bats her eyelashes like she has some sort of tree stuck in her eyeballs. I return her smile with a small twitch of my lips and look away, not bothering to repeat her earlier question and ask for her name. I'm hoping that if I ignore the problem, it will eventually go away.

No such luck. Should have known. There's not many places to disappear to when you're on a plane.

"I'm Lauren. Lauren Mallory." I don't give a flying donkey's ass what her name is but I decide that I won't be doing much on this flight except for waiting for it to be over and I might as well humor her. For the past half hour she's been brushing herself against me, trying desperately to get my attention. She's attractive enough: she's got all the right curves in all the right places and her face isn't unpleasant. She was a brunette once, but now she has blonde laced into the hair that's mussed purposely to look like she just rolled out of bed after a long night of wild copulations.

I snort quietly. _Copulations_. I am one funny fucker.

She blinks up at me, plucked eyebrows furrowing slightly.

"Wha-what's so funny?" she asks, faltering slightly. For a moment I take pleasure in the uneasy edge of her voice before I realize how very _Aro_ that is and scowl.

When my parents died in a horrible, bloody, violent _accident_, Aro, ever so generous, took me as his own. My father, Edward Sr., had thoroughly distanced my mother and I from anything that had to do with the Volturi. I knew I had family beyond my mother's relatives and our close friends, but I was never shown their pictures, never told their names. Whenever I asked about them, my father would grow quiet and his face would cloud with a dark, unreadable mask and I wouldn't be able to get anything out of him.

So, when on the morning of my parent's wake, a man so similar to my father that the woman who opened the door nearly fainted made an appearance, I didn't know what to think. All I knew was that he might look like him, but the man was not my father. He was older, and much less handsome. And although he was older, the man's face was smoother than my father's, almost like stone. He had an unnatural sharpness about him, a certain off-kilter feel, that made my body quiver with fear. No, this man was not my father at all. My father was kind, my father was loving, and my father was dead.

"You must be Edward."

I stared up at the impostor, counting all the ways he differed from my father. His nose was slightly off center, as if it had been broken long ago and hadn't healed right. His skin was immaculate, his jaw neatly shaved, whereas my father always seemed to miss a rough spot or nick a bit of his skin.

"Yeah."

My voice was rough. I had to clear it twice before I could form the word correctly on my tongue. It tasted like pain and the deepest kind of grief.

"My name is Aro." He paused. "I'm your father's brother."

My uncle. This man was my uncle. Weird. What do I do now? Hug him?

He didn't exactly seem like the hugging type.

Or the touching type.

Or the feeling type.

In fact, he was unlike any type I knew of.

"I'm very sorry for your loss, Edward." I nodded slowly; these were words were far too familiar but they lacked the empathetic emotion that always accompanied them, the gentle frown and the sorrowful expression. After a moment of silence, he places a hand on my shoulder and I fight every instinct to shake it off. "Your father and I weren't exactly close in recent years, but when we were younger, he was something like my best friend."

I wondered if this was true. My father had never talked about his childhood; how was I supposed to know if this man were lying or not?

As if he could hear my thoughts, the man reached a hand with fingers more spindly than my father's into his freshly pressed suit and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He held it between two fingers and immediately offered it to me. I watched my hand reach out to take it from him. It seemed like I had lost control of my own body.

With shaking fingers I unfolded the paper. On it was a photograph of four boys crowded closely together, arms strung around each other. It looked like it should have been happy moment, but the only one smiling was the one on the far left. Although I had never been shown pictures of his childhood, I knew right away who the grinning boy was. The unmistakable curve of his lips and untamed hair gave him away. The smiling boy was my father.

Next to him was what I could only imagine was a much younger version of the man - my uncle, I corrected myself - next to me. His face was set in solemn expression, even as he gripped my father's shoulders and another boy's to his right. He was tallest of the four, and towered easily over my father. The other two wore the same expression as him as the three of them gazed stonily at the camera.

My eyes drifted back to my father.

"Edward was the youngest of we boys," my uncle told me, his eyes on me rather than the Edward he was talking about. I didn't look up.

My eyes burned with an all too familiar prick. Crying wouldn't solve anything. Crying wouldn't bring my father back to life. Crying wouldn't make my mother not dead. But I wanted to try anyway.

"I am the first born." One of his fingers crept into view and pointed at the boy to his immediate right in the photograph. "That is Marcus. He is second oldest. And the one next to him is Caius. He is third."

I nodded vaguely, my eyes still devouring my father's photo, trying to picture him as he was, young and alive.

I wasn't expecting what Aro said next.

"I'd like you to come live with me, Edward."

My head snapped up and a lone tear slid down my face as I lost the concentration to keep it in. I looked at him hard; I could see my father in him. I could see it clearly. When he offered me a small, slow smile, I knew I would go with him. Anything to be near someone who had known my father, who had loved him, who might turn out to be like him.

How wrong I had been.

The woman, Laura, Lauren, whatever, looks at me in wonder, taking in my scowl. I soften my features and give her a shit-eating grin.

"Sorry," I say smoothly, running a hand through my hair and gazing at her heavily in a way I _know_ she'll find positively panty dropping. Her reaction doesn't disappoint.

"Oh, it's _fine_," she purrs, not so subtly rubbing her legs against mine as she hooked it over her knee and let it rest there, ever so slightly touching mine. "Perfectly fine."

I let my elbow hold my weight as I lean on the arm rest and smile widely at her. Women have never been much of an issue for me. Before my parent's death, they were a kind of mystery that I nor any of my friends could figure out, but they seemed to like me just fine. My father always told me to respect women, that they were beautiful creatures that deserved to have their doors opened for them and taken out to dinner somewhere that didn't have a one dollar meal section. But Aro instructed me differently. He showed me the ropes, he told me things that made me superior to women, he taught me that sex appeal, dark flirtations, and a heavy, smoldering gaze was all you need to get that certain lady friend… or acquaintance… or woman you've just met on the plane… practically begging to jump your bones.

My sole focus is supposed to be on the woman, Isabella Swan, but I wonder if that starts before or after I land in Seattle. Besides, if I'm going to have to get serious with her, or at least act serious with her, I'll probably won't be having wild, meaningless fucking sessions for a while.

I asses the woman beside me.

She's more than willing.

This flight is a long one.

I smirk as I let my finger tips trail not so innocently across her thigh as I lean over and look down the isle, noting that the restroom is currently unoccupied.

I smile impishly at her and cock an eyebrow at her, nodding at the bathrooms down the isle. Her eyes very nearly roll back into her head and she nods eagerly before slowly standing and sashaying her way to the first class bathrooms and turning and winking at me as she slides the door shut. I feel an uncomfortable strain in my pants and adjust myself, counting down the minutes until I can join her in the bathroom.

No harm in taking one last one for the road.

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><p><strong>Thank you for reading! And don't worry, our sweet Bella will be making an appearance soon enough. I just want to get Edward established. Give him a steadier ground to stand on. He's quite the complex character.<strong>

**Anyway, thank you again for reading. Feel free to leave me a comment! :)**

**Questions, problems, concerns? Just drop me a note and I'll be happy to answer them for you.**


	3. Chapter 3

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own _Twilight_ or anything associated with the saga. **

**Here. Have a filler, because I want you to.**

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><p><strong>Chapter Three<strong>

"The scars of your love, they leave me breathless, I can't help feeling - WE COULD OF HAD IT ALL! ROLLING IN THE DEEEEEEEP! YOU HAD MY HEART INSIDE YOUR HAND AND YOU PLAYED IT TO THE -"

"Excuse me? Would you mind _not _making my ears want to shrivel up into my skull?"

The man - a boy, more realistically - drops the duster in his hand and flips around to stare at me with wide, shocked eyes. It's comical, the way his mouth flounders up and down, and I have to laugh because honestly, it's the funniest thing I've seen… and heard… all day. And it's been a really fucking long day.

"Getting ready for this year's American Idol, then?" I ask, strolling over to the leather love-seat and dropping my minimal baggage there. I wonder why I'm not telling him in that cold voice of Aro's that I'm so good at to get the fuck out of my new penthouse, but I decide it's been far too long since I've had a normal conversation with someone I didn't want to either kill or fuck. The thought makes me snort.

_Jesus. I really am fucked up._

"Oh sweet peanuts," he says, placing a hand over his heart. "You scared the bejesus out of me."

I appraise him from my position by the little cluster of couches and armchairs that make a semi-circle around a grand fireplace. He's tan skinned and on the small side, with shortly cropped, black hair and dark eyes. He fidgets slightly under my gaze and leans down to pick up the bright green duster.

"Uh, I'm Seth," he says as he straightens. "Nice to meet you?"

"Why are you in my home?" I paused, glancing at his feet. He was surrounded by an army of cleaning supplies.

"Oh, right. I'm your cleaning lady, minus the lady bit. At your service, sir! Except for, you know, the whole seducing the sexy maid part, because although I may be sexy, I'm really not into that kind of-"

"Jesus, I get the point, kid." I say, and because he's the first person I've warmed up to in a long, long time, I offer him a crooked smile. He grins toothily back at me and looks around the room.

"My dad's the head janitor of this apartment complex," he explains, his hands on his hips. "And this is kind of my summer job."

"It's January," I say pointedly, glancing out of the large windows, looking at the sleet of rain crashing down on the city.

"Yeah, I know," he says sadly, following my gaze outside. "It was just supposed to be my summer job. Two summers ago." He shrugs and runs the duster along the edge of the coffee table absently. "It's been kind of rough at home, so I've had to push college back and help my dad and sister out. But, you know how it is." He laughs. "Family first, priorities after, huh?"

I don't know how it is. Maybe I did, once, but not anymore. Not since I realized Aro was _nothing _like my father.

I wonder why the kid - Seth - is telling me all this. Is he always this trusting? This open? Trust will get you killed, in the world where I've been living for the past fourteen years. Then I realize I'm not in that world anymore. I won't be for a while - if I do my job. And suddenly, the sky doesn't look so grey.

"I'm Anthony," I say, because for now, I am. Seth nods. I wonder how much he knows about me. I wonder how much Aro knows about him. I sink into the largest of the armchairs. "So, is there is shortage in Seattle of French maids or did you volunteer yourself for the job?"

"Ha!" He rolls his eyes and throws the duster into the bucket of other cleaning supplies that I've never had to lay a hand on before in my life. "My dad volunteered me, thank you very much. Apparently the more expensive bookshelf you're dusting, the better the pay." He tosses a lopsided grin in my direction and plops himself down on one of the couches.

I know he's way out of line to be sitting down on the job, let alone when I'm in the room, but there's something about this kid that I like so I don't boot him through the door and fire his ass to a crisp and instead prop one leg over the other and watch as he slumps and spreads his legs wide, sitting in a way I haven't been allowed to in a long, long time.

I miss it; sitting like a boy, acting like a boy. Not like the nephew of a more prestigious version of a mob boss.

"You're different."

I look up at him, having been lost in my thoughts, and frown.

"Excuse me?"

He lets his arms spread across the back of the couch and he cocks his head at me.

"Well, most people would have fired me by now. But you haven't."

I laugh humorlessly.

"Are you trying to get yourself fired?"

He shakes his head earnestly, his eyes wide.

"No, not at all. Only now, thinking about it, everything you've seen me do, heard me say, since you walked through the door should have made you want to get rid of me, ASAP." He pauses, his cheeks coloring slightly. "I guess I just can't help it. I'm like some freak of nature that needs to be friends with every person who crosses its path. The Friendimisser. The Friendanator. The Friend-"

"Yes, I got the point the first time." I say, before he can launch himself into trying to think of a name for his friendly nature. "And I'm not going to fire you." I don't offer him a reason why. I'm guessing it would sound stupid if I told him he is already the closet thing I've had for a friend in a long time and I've known him for less than twenty minutes.

_Dear Lord, I'm fucking pathetic_.

He nods and yet another grin cracks across his face.

"I can wear the dress that the French maid I'm replacing left, if that'll make you feel any better."

For the first time in fourteen years, I guffaw.

_Okay. There's must be something in the rain that seeps through your clothes and into your skin and makes you fucking crazy because nothing else explains why I feel so goddam… easy. _

It's easy to talk with Seth. It's easy to laugh with him.

There's no reason I can't a few friends this year, right? Besides, if I wanted Isabella to trust me, it'd probably be better if I don't give off the vibe of being a friendless man who holes himself up in his apartment when he's not doing something with her.

Best if I appear normal, even though I'm really fucking not.

"Hey, Anthony?" Anthony? Anthony... Oh, right. I glance up at him. He's got his phone out. "Wanna go out for a drink? You're new to this town, right? I could introduce you to some of my friends."

I snort. "Christ, are you even old enough to go to a bar?"

Seth rolls his eyes and types a reply on his phone. "Yeah, I turned twenty-one a few months ago."

"Bullshit."

"Really, I did!" He whips out his wallet and tosses a little card at me. I catch it between my pointer and middle finger. My reflexes have been perfected over the years. When you're a part time hitman for a man like my uncle, they have to be.

Seth doesn't even look impressed. He just nods eagerly at the ID and I look down at it.

"Seems legit, yeah?" He says, getting up from the couch and gathering his cleaning supplies. I nod, holding it out to him. He snatches it and looks at me with a smug twinkle in his eye.

"That's because it is, you old fart."

I wonder if I should pin him to the ground for insulting me. But really, it wasn't an insult. Not coming from him. No, it was more of an endearment, as strange as I find that.

I guess I won't break his arm. This time.

"Do you always speak to your superiors that way?"

He laughs and stops at the door.

"Hey, man, you're just the dude who owns the stuff I clean. You should be thanking me."

"I believe that's called a paycheck."

He chuckles.

"You're right. Let me try again." He clears his throat and speaks in a haughtily manner, as if he's a slowly decaying butler. "Master Anthony…"

"Cullen," I reply after a moment.

"Master Anthony Cullen," he begins again, smiling widely. "Would you like to accompany me and my chums this lovely, rainy evening for a drink or six at the bar down the road? Or would you like to stay here and think about your freak of a cleaning lady and be alone for the first night of what I assume will be many in this beautiful city of Seattle?"

And because for whatever odd reason I like this kid, and because I was to start this new, short life of mine off right, I rise slowly, loosen my tie, grab my coat, slinging it over my shoulder and walking to the door, leaving my new home unexplored, and follow my first almost-friend for the first time in fourteen years out.

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><p><strong>Questions, problems, concerns? Just drop me a note and I'll be happy to answer them for you.<strong>


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